The Photograph
by ink and ashes
Summary: Michael gets a nasty wake up call. Sequel to The Stray. Mature audiences only. Written for the Inferno Challenge on Roswell Heaven.


_The Photograph_

**THE SIN: **Pride/Gluttony

Morning came, as it always did. Sun shining, birds singing, fluffy clouds and all the stupid crap that came with it.

Mornings could go fuck themselves, for all he cared.

The Universe must have shared his sentiments; a pillow came crashing down on his face, followed by the playful voice of one very dead alien. "Wake up!"

"_Fuck_ _off_," Michael grumbled as he opened his heavy eyes. He was going to kill Max, brother or not. "Some people work for a living."

Sadly, Maxwell had grown a thick skin and did not take Michael's early morning grumpiness very seriously. Had he gotten soft? The day that no one feared Michael Guerin's wrath was approaching, and he did not appreciate having his status as the unapproachable asshole taken away. "Not today. Did you forget?" Why was Max so damned excited? It was like a puppy wagging his tail. The strong urge to kick said puppy was overwhelming. "It's _graduation_, Michael." Max was explaining, as if Michael were slow… which, at this hour, he might as well be. "Go take a shower and get dressed. Maria called and she's going to give us a ride, so hurry up!"

Michael grunted, covering his eyes with his hand. "Maria…" Why did he have to wake up today?

"Yeah, your _girlfriend_," said the evil doppelganger, because his brother would never be so cruel. "Remember her? Blonde? Said she was going to kill you if you weren't ready by the time she got here."

"_Ugh_," was Michael's reply. He had no intention of attending that over-glorified ritual just to receive a piece of paper that proved he had survived high school. It was stupid. What the hell was he going to do with it? It would be much more reasonable to mail it to him, instead of going through this ridiculous ceremony. The tuxedo laying on his couch—to _air out_, as Max had explained—was stupid, the crimson cap and gown—in the _wrong color_, since the school's theme was blue and yellow… did no one realize the glaring discrepancy here?—was stupid, the fussing and bitching and _huge fucking deal_ everyone had made over it for the past month was stupid. He had not attended the rehearsal, did not know what to do… maybe they would disqualify him from participating. Could they do that? Perhaps he could body check the principal, though it seemed idiotic to get expelled on the day of his graduation. As much as he wished it so, hockey did not apply to real-life situations.

It was excruciating, this getting out of bed business. All he could think of were the many reasons he did not want to go. Maria would be there, for one, and it was difficult enough to look at her these days; her betrayal with Billy was hardly on par with the transgressions Michael had stacked against him, but to know that the woman he'd given his heart and unwavering trust to had thrown it away for some guitar-playing pansy was enough to make him sick. The several weeks since Maria had admitted to her crimes had not alleviated the mighty blow to his ego, but he tried to pretend it did not mean anything. That he'd forgiven her. Now, he took comfort in the fact that he'd been the first to defect, though it mattered little.

Secondly, Sean DeLuca would probably be there. Sean DeLuca, who had encroached upon his territory. Sean _fucking _DeLuca, whom, after Michael had nearly ripped him apart, had confessed that he'd never done anything with the infuriating Liz Parker aside from making out. In that moment, not only had Michael unwittingly revealed his own weakness for the brunette in his actions, he'd also made a fool of himself. Which brought him to reason number three.

Elizabeth Parker.

_Liz_. He could not begin to name the many ways he'd fucked everything up.

Michael could not bring himself to apologize, even several weeks later. He remembered that night as if it had been tattooed into his brain. He remembered slipping into her window after his argument with Maria, ready tear into her after he'd heard a rumor about Sean claiming the young Miss Parker as his own, braying like a horse over his supposed conquest. He remembered her crying, as she seemed to do so often. He remembered the glory in having her again after abstaining from his favorite dessert for so long. He remembered the tainted lust pumping through his bloodstream, screaming for her and hating her for doing this to him. He hadn't had enough of her. Could _never_ have enough of her. _More_, he had raged. _So much more…_ Try as he might, he could not stop himself from reliving the scene every day, over and over and over, like an annoying track stuck in his head. His words, his angry, hurtful words meant to inflict as much pain as he could, lashing out at her so that she may understand and experience the same agony her betrayal had caused him.

Had she not wanted him, had she not desired him at all, he would have still taken her—against her will, if need be—because she was _his,_ damn it. It was a surprise that her pulse still quickened when he touched her, that she was did not fight him, even though her fear was tangible enough to taste.

It was a good thing Ava, wrinkled and tousled from sleep, had come running down when she did. He could not control himself, could not repress this animal that wanted to lick away her silent tears and fuck her again, right there, amidst the broken pieces of glass on the floor. She was beautiful, even in the throes of despair. She was a nice piece of ass, if nothing else, and the possessive anger nearly blinded him again, pissed that she had allowed another man to touch what was _his_ and _his_ alone. Had he not been enough for her? Did he not fuck her hard enough, often enough? He had been distracted with a few, very personal demons since returning to Roswell from Salina, and had neglected to see her, had neglected to check up on her, but it did _not_ call for her to sleep with another man.

A bolt of energy threw him across the room and far, far away from her. Thankfully, he'd already zipped up his pants, or this would have been _really_ awkward. "What the _fuck_ did you do t' her?"

Ava, her new sidekick, stood on the landing just to the right of the little ball that was Elizabeth Parker. Frosty eyes surveyed the scene with horror as Michael groaned from the impact, rubbing his head. She'd blasted the _shit_ out of him. That little street punk was stronger than she seemed, as unnerving as that was, and looking at the destruction he'd caused in his temper, he could only imagine what she must have assumed. "The _fuck _is your problem?" he spat back at her, standing on legs that still shook from a myriad of different reasons. He was defensive, his fury simmering out of the stubborn need to justify himself and the all-consuming venom that roared at the sight of her. The last thing he needed was for Lizzie's Little Helper to think he'd forced himself on the brunette, which, at this point, may not have been too far from the truth.

_No_, he told himself adamantly. She'd been more than ready for him when he had torn away her clothes, _more_ than ready when he'd slid into her, _more_ than willing when he'd pounded her against the refrigerator.

"Liz," Ava tried, shaking the unresponsive girl that still shivered in the naked pile he'd left her in. "C'mon, Cornball. Answer me. _Liz._" Her nudity sent a pang of need coursing through his veins, but he managed to keep it in check. _Barely_. Ava turned her furious gaze upon him, a snarl contorting her normally pretty face into an ugly mask. "_Sonuvabitch_. I'll rip your fuckin' dick off!" Her obvious concern for Liz seemed to be the only reason she had not done so already. He had no doubt that she very much meant every word.

"Michael?" It was Max, startling him back into the present. "You okay?" A frown graced the King's brow. "You look a little pale. I know it's scary for you, but if it makes you feel any better, I'll hold your hand."

Michael appreciated the light attempt at humor. With a yawn, he stood and stretched, scratching at his stomach absently. "If I wear the penguin suit, you gotta shave that beard."

Max fingered the peach fuzz growing on his chin. "What's wrong with it?"

"You look like a pedophile."

Another pillow was thrown. "Whatever, Sasquatch."

Michael glared at him. "You need to stop hanging around Valenti. He's a bad influence on you."

Max rolled his eyes. "Yes, mom."

The two bantered amicably for a few more moments until Maxwell forcibly pushed him towards the lavatory, commenting on the late hour. It did not take long for them to get prepared and by the time Amy and Maria DeLuca—sans Sean—arrived in the '92 Volkswagen Jetta, they'd gotten impatient, munching on potato chips while watching old cartoon reruns to pass the time. Amy gushed at how handsome the boys were, how beautiful her little girl was—and promptly took way too many photographs for his liking—before ushering them all into the car and speeding towards West Roswell High School for the last time.

Isabel was there, along with Phillip and Diane Evans. In spite of the unease surrounding the parents and their adoptive son since the Utah incident, Diane was in tears upon seeing Max and forced him, along with Michael, Maria and Isabel, for another round of pictures. Kyle and Jim Valenti sauntered over, unintentionally instigating yet another battle with the dreaded camera of doom; Max had to restrain Michael from destroying that damned digital device from hell on more than one occasion. With the cameras finally sheathed, the small group amused themselves in idle conversation, the parents discussing various topics amongst themselves whilst their children hovered together, watching their peers cry and gush about their final day as high school students. Many people who had never spoken to each other before were embracing, promising to keep in touch and exchanging numbers in one last, desperate attempt to cling to their adolescent memories. Bitter enemies became best friends, and there were far too many hippie-esque vibes of love and peace floating around. Damned hypocrites.

Michael had not realized he'd been scanning through the crowd for a specific face until Kyle asked, suspiciously casual, "Anybody seen Liz?"

Buddha-loving bastard. It was probably intentional. Not that Michael could call him on it, not with the others so close. Why would he bring _her_ up? Did he not see how Maxwell's face darkened with sadness at the name? Did he not see how Maria pursed her lips at the mention of her former best friend, whom she avoided and refused to reconcile with? Did he not see the muscle ticking in Michael's jaw, or Isabel's thunderous expression? No, the midget could not be that dense. Michael was pretty sure Kyle knew exactly what he was doing, had intended for them to confront the issue of their missing member; the very reason it was no longer just Max, Michael and Isabel, but a group of both humans and aliens that had become friends despite all odds. Manipulative jackass. Kyle was the only one that still spoke to Liz, and Michael could not help but envy him for it.

As if the very name invoked the Universe and its morbid sense of humor, the gymnasium doors were opened to reveal the elusive Elizabeth Parker, the sun casting an ethereal glow upon her slender silhouette. Michael did not move, could barely breathe at the sight of her. Cornflower blue silk draped from her tanned shoulders, revealing the golden valley between her breasts to connect in an elaborate "V" at her abdomen, her spine wonderfully bare; the gossamer fabric fell to her painted toes, her dainty feet encased in strappy heels. Thick curls surrounded her sweet face, falling from a strategically messy gathering at the crown of her head.

She was magnificent. _Gorgeous_.

Michael itched to touch her, the nerves in his palms buzzing with the fierce need to hold her. The memory of her flesh was not enough. Did she not know that she was not allowed to be so fucking tempting? Did she not see how easily she commanded the room, like a goddess rewarding her servants with her mere presence? Michael scowled at himself, disgusted at the whimsical turn of his thoughts, but as she moved through the heavy throng of people like Moses parting the Red Sea, he had to wonder if there wasn't more than a little justification for the poetic nonsense flitting around his head.

"Hey guys," she chirped in a distinct falsetto. Her eyes found Kyle, the only friendly face, and stayed there. The scent of her nearly undid him; beside him, Max was equally mesmerized.

"Hey, yourself," said Kyle, smiling at her. Michael bit back the bile of jealousy when she eagerly accepted Kyle's embrace, her smile luminous. "You look _gorgeous_," Kyle continued, leaning back to get a good look at her. He'd taken the words directly from Michael's head.

Her cheeks were tinted a delicate rose at the blatant compliment. "You don't look so bad, either." She disentangled herself from Kyle, tossing a glance over her shoulder. "Listen," she began, as if they were able to do anything but pay attention to her. "My dad's inviting you guys over to the Crash after the ceremony, if you're interested." Large, dark eyes flickered over the silent group, never lingering for more than a second before returning to Kyle's safe gaze. She did not bother to look at Michael. "We'll have the place to ourselves. It'll be fun."

Kyle quirked an eyebrow. "He's alright with having a bunch of teenagers at the Crash? _Unattended_?"

She shrugged. "It's a gift." Her smile wavered. "He trusts me again."

"Ah," replied Kyle. A pause. "Will there be alcohol?"

"_Kyle!_" She swatted his arm.

Kyle laughed, lifting his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, I'm _sorry!_ Can you blame a guy for trying?"

As if on cue, Jeffrey and Nancy Parker caught up to their daughter, effectively breaking the Liz-induced trance he'd fallen into. To Michael's unending dismay, they carried _cameras_ in their hands, ready and able to wield them at a moment's notice. What was with all the damned pictures today? He could see anyone wanting to immortalize Liz and her distracting perfection, but _every_ parent in this damned town now held a weapon of mass destruction and it was starting to piss him off. "Hey kids," Jeff greeted with a smile as he hugged his daughter. "You all look so wonderful!" Did _everyone_ have to say that? Michael felt like a tool in this ridiculous suit. "Did Lizzie already tell you?" One thing Michael had always liked about Jeff Parker was his ability to cut through bullshit and get to the point. If more people were like that, the world would still be a shitty place, but at least there would be significantly less pussyfooting.

Kyle nodded, since everyone else seemed unable to speak. When had he become the neutral party? "Sure did, Mister Parker. Does this mean we get free food?"

Jeff chuckled. "Of course! Just remember to leave some behind. I _do_ have a business to run, you know." He looked over to his wife, whom, much to their surprise, had been speaking with Ava. Jeff and Nancy must have perfected the communication of marriage, Michael was sure, so when Nancy broke away from the pink-haired alien to join them, it only proved his point that married couples automatically learned telepathy.

Nancy slipped in beside her husband, radiant with happiness. "You all look so _wonderful!_" That's it. If one more person made that same remark, in that _same_ tone, he would _not_ be held accountable for his actions. Of course, Nancy Parker had no idea how very infuriating this day had been thus far and, very much like Jeff, forged ahead, completely oblivious to Michael and his increasingly volatile temper. Add the silent Ava and the poisonous glare she threw at him, and this circus called Graduation had officially started. "Would you mind if we took some pictures? I'd love to get a group photo."

Oh, no. Oh, _hell_ no.

Michael very much wanted to grab every camera in the building and stomp them into itty bitty little pieces under his shiny shoes, but Max leveled him with a warning glance. No scenes, right. Under the radar, right.

_Tell that to the fucking parents._

It spiraled downward from there. As the Parker parents maneuvered the group of teenagers into a semblance of aesthetic symmetry, the Evans's decided to join the festivities—oh yeah, it was a fucking _party_ over here—with Jim Valenti not too far behind. They were squeezed and pushed in every direction, in every possible combination, bright lights blinding them in the rhythmic _ch'ck, ch'ck, ch'ck_ of those soul-stealing cameras. Then—_oh, goody gumdrops_—Ava and Isabel were told that they simply _had_ to be in the photograph, graduating or not, which spun the invisible thread of tension even thicker.

During one particularly _brilliant_ instance of choreography by the adults, Michael found himself sandwiched between Liz and Maria. It was the most uncomfortable he'd ever been in his life; Maria leaned against him without hesitation, but Liz simply stood there, the side of one breast—notably larger than he remembered, which struck him as both odd and incredibly frustrating—grazing his arm. When did posing involve so much touching? Body parts were all over the place, bumping and resting against each other in the awkward huddle of humans and extraterrestrials. How could these people call themselves parents and willingly let their children grope each other so openly? True, no one had actually placed their hands on anything _too_ inappropriate, but if Liz did not move her and her fuckable self away from him, _right fucking now_, he would show everyone just how smart it was to take pictures of him, tell him how wonderful he looked, _and_ place him next to Liz Parker. All in one sitting. He'd get fired, maimed and possibly killed, but he would have proved his point.

He suffered through the indignation—and the pure agony when the Parkers wanted photos of their daughter with each, individual person—until finally, _finally_ the principle marched in and told them it was show time. All of the adults and visitors filtered out of the gymnasium, and the graduates donned their red caps and gowns, moving into lines divided by gender and, with some help from the academic coordinators, alphabetical order.

Aside from the school orchestra playing Pomp and Circumstance indefinitely as the mass of vermilion seated themselves, the actual ceremony was horribly boring. The valedictorian gave a crappy speech that may have been some kind of inspirational crap at one point, but was still just crap from start to finish. Michael had to wonder how Liz, brain-child extraordinaire, had not claimed the title of valedictorian… but then, with the alien-slash-government conspiracies that had entangled her life, coupled with his own meddling in her free time, he was surprised she had managed to graduate with honors_. _Teachers that had hounded him since he'd enrolled in West Roswell High were standing at the podium, declaring how proud they were. People kept talking and talking and _talking_, until it was time to accept their diplomas, which they were required to do once their name had been called. Caps were thrown in accordance with tradition once everyone had received the rolled up piece of paper. More cameras flickered, with some mysteriously malfunctioning when Michael's patience had run dry. The caps and tassels were retrieved from the floor. More people cried.

He was going to _kill_ Max for waking him up today.

**x.x.x**

He heard her caterwauling before they pulled in front of the restaurant, and it became clear that Maria DeLuca was the _only_ good songstress Roswell had to offer.

Scrunched into the old, battered Jetta, Michael had no idea why they had decided to take Liz up on her offer. Perhaps the finality of graduation had prompted some sentimental part of them to spend some time with the girl they had all vigorously avoided, perhaps Kyle had succeeded in his guilt trip, or perhaps they were all enticed by the promise of free food. Whatever the reason, the five of them had changed out of their formalwear and were now parked in front of the Crash Down, watching her twirl around in a pair of tiny shorts, singing—if it could be called as such—along with the music blasting through the stereo. Michael questioned the choice of artist—Nine Inch Nails and Liz Parker did _not_ go hand-in-hand—until Ava burst through the kitchen door into the dining room, carrying a large tray of cold-cut meats and cheeses. She smiled at Liz, who seemed to believe that the diner was her personal stage, and placed the tray by the three others sitting on the counter.

"This is a bad idea," said Max, his eyes hardening at the sight of the little New Yorker. "We shouldn't have come here."

Michael rolled his eyes at his paranoid brother; the only one Ava presented a threat to was Michael himself. "She got Liz outta jail, Maxwell. I think that counts for _something_," Michael found himself saying in defense.

Max was incredulous. "_What?_" Isabel and Maria echoed the surprise in Max's voice.

Shit. He'd forgotten about that. "You think they just let her go?" Michael snapped, stalling. Kyle was the only person, besides Ava, that knew of the heated affair between Elizabeth Parker and himself. Only they were privy to his mindless desperation when he'd gotten wind of the situation is Utah, his worry that he hid under his fury at Max for allowing Parker to go along with the world's _dumbest_ plan. Ava had been the answer to his prayers, and he'd been giddy with relief when the duplicate of Tess had eagerly agreed to help Liz. Unfortunately, Michael had never bothered to explain to the others exactly _how_ Miss Parker had managed to get her name cleared and with the whirlwind of complications that had arisen upon their return to Roswell, he'd never had the time. He sorely regretted that decision now. "You gave her a gun and you think they were just gonna let her walk outta there?" Michael restrained himself from exploding at Max. It would not be a great idea to let out all of frustration right now. Not in this tiny ass car. He took a breath. "I handled it, it's done. Can we _please_ go inside and stop Parker from killing an awesome song?" He'd never be able to listen to that band without cringing again.

"I second that notion," piped up Kyle, wisely escaping from the car. Michael envied him for the umpteenth time that day.

Max ignored him, plunging into the role of the authoritarian. "You _handled_ it? Michael, you could have—"

"Could've, would've, should've, but _didn't_." Michael expelled on a sigh. This conversation was long overdue, but he had no intention of having it any time soon. He opened the door and stepped out into the blazing desert sun. It would be evening in a few hours. With any luck, he could postpone this argument till then. "I cleaned up your mess, _Your Highness_, and now I'm hungry. _Drop it_."

Max pushed himself out of the Jetta, sputtering. "This discussion is _not_ over. You put all of us in jeopardy and I can't _believe_ you went behind our backs. _God_, Michael! Don't you _ever_ use your brain?"

Michael was saved from potentially shoving his foot up Maxwell's ass. "Hey guys!" It was Liz, opening the restaurant door with a huge smile. Her radiance was enough to stop both men from diving at each other.

How could she be so goddamned cheerful? With her curls trailing freely down her back and her feet bare, she was still a sight to behold. That grin, those dark eyes, those long, toned legs… how could she prance so casually around them? They had all fucked her over—himself more than the rest—and yet, she was standing there, inviting them in without a hint of malice, beguiling them with the sweet, cozy image she presented. Like good little children, they followed her into the Crash Down, quietly surveying the light décor, the plates of food and drink, the bottles of Tabasco, the giant stereo system pushed off to the side behind a leaning tower of CD cases. There was an enlarged portrait hanging on the far wall in a golden frame, preserved behind a sheet of glass. Prom night. The small plaque beneath it read: _In Loving Memory of Alexander Whitman._ Michael stared as the memories threatened to choke him.

They were laughing. _All of them_. On the right was Alex, grinning from ear to ear, with his arms wrapped around Isabel, whom Michael had rarely seen so radiant and carefree. Maria stood beside them in a flowing gown of ivory and a crown of flowers, her blonde ringlets falling past her shoulders. Liz in black and Tess in lavendar, the smallest of the bunch, were flanked by Max in a suit and a clip-on bowtie. Michael and Kyle stood behind them, Michael still in his work clothes, completing the very last picture they would ever take of Alexander Whitman.

He did his best to ignore the fingers of sorrow snaking through his chest. Alex was a constant reminder of their failure to protect those closest to them. Of their inability to see what had been right beneath their noses. So many emotions and secrets had surrounded the seemingly innocent Prom, many more that they would not be aware of until it was much too late. That same night, Michael had discovered the strength of desire when he tore apart Elizabeth Parker's simple black dress in a frenzy to have her, unknowingly taking her virginity in the cramped eraser room. Max had given into his alien curiosity. Alex and Isabel had finally taken a step towards their mutual happiness. Kyle had discovered his brotherly love for a sister that would betray them all in the vilest way.

Michael looked away from the photograph, unable to maintain his outward indifference. Why would Liz hang this up, where they would always see it? Was this her way of forcing them to remember? Was this her way of reminding them of their failings? He could not understand it, could not rationalize it, and when his eyes looked for her of their own accord, he was not as surprised as he should have been to find her staring at him.

She quickly broke contact, retreating behind the counter. "Guess what I have," she sang, ducking down.

"A million bucks?" Kyle quipped, peering over the Formica.

"Nope," came the chirping brunette. Small hands reappeared with four large bottles, clinking loudly against one another. "_Alcohol!_"

"I love you," replied Kyle, swiping a decanter of amber liquid. He turned toward the hybrids with a wide smile. "Anyone game for beer pong?" Obviously, Kyle was unaware of how alcohol affected an extraterrestrial's body.

Michael glared at him. "Doesn't the fat man have something against drinking?" He was being an asshole. He did not care.

Kyle gave him a patient stare, fully prepared to enlighten his poor, ignorant friend. "Alcohol consumption is inconsistent with Buddha and the Buddhist's quest to understand and develop the mind. Buddha teaches us that by practicing meditation, wisdom and morality, every individual has the innate ability to experience true happiness without the need to destroy one's mind with intoxicants. _However_," he paused dramatically, relishing the attention as, for once, no one had interrupted his sermon. "I've just graduated from high school, I'm eating free food, I'm friends with a bunch of aliens who brought me back from the dead… and a pretty lady just gave little ol', underage _me_ a bottle of Jose Cuervo." He nudged Liz with said bottle. She openly snickered at him. "I think the Buddha can make an exception."

Michael scoffed at him. "Hypocrite."

Young Valenti gave him a secretive smile. "Sometimes, my friend, we have to be."

**x.x.x**

The moment he'd seen Liz pull out those bottles of booze, something had told him to stop her from consuming any. But what could he do? He wasn't her lover anymore, had never been her boyfriend, and he could no longer really call himself a friend, so who was _he_ to tell her no? While it could have easily been his subconscious tendency to worry, Michael knew better than to ignore his instincts. Throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, he watched her as Ava kept confiscating the drinks that Liz kept pouring for herself, scowling and protesting, "You shouldn't be drinkin' so damn much." Ava would hand the pilfered cup over to Kyle, who would sip a little bit before passing it back to Liz. The cycle repeated itself endlessly until, hours later, the two humans were too intoxicated to get anything past the mothering alien and forfeited the game altogether. "Liz," said Ava, forcing said young woman to sit on the counter. "I'm cuttin' your ass off." When all she received was a giggle in response, Ava huffed. "_Humans_."

Humans, indeed. Even Maria, who had yet to break the cold shoulder she gave her former best friend—something she had never explained to him, much to his annoyance—had given into temptation and was singing along to some random song breezing through the restaurant, drinking a mixture of rum and coke. Isabel and Max were just as ditzy, having absently grabbed one of the beer pong cups, and they staggered around with an unsteady grin; Isabel sniffed Kyle and proclaimed that he smelled of grilled cheese sandwiches and soap. Kyle had taken it as a compliment, sweeping the tall blonde away and kissing her in thanks. The two happy, giggly drunks were now tripping over each other's feet in a twisted tango of limbs.

When a fiddle began playing the first few notes of _Cotton Eyed Joe_, all hell broke loose.

Any animosity or malcontent was quickly pushed aside. Inhibitions? That would be a negative. Liz, in all of her shrieking glory, jumped on Kyle's back, whooping and cheering like a madwoman on a mechanical bull. Maria, lost in the excitement, barreled into Isabel and insisted that she learn the silly square dance, offering her own brand of wobbly tutorship. Isabel tugged her morose brother into the fray, commanding Max to let out his inner cowboy; Max proceeded to do so and bumped into Kyle more times than not, going so far as to pull an unsuspecting Ava into his arms and promptly swung her around in his childish glee. Ava covered her face in her hand, grumbling something about bad ideas… but Michael noticed how her eyes softened when she looked upon the duplicate of her lost Zan. There was something there, something hidden, and since she was as sober as Michael—whom, after witnessing the mishap that led to the Evans siblings consuming alcohol, had refused to drink anything he did not prepare himself—it was definitely _real_. Michael did not know what to make of it.

Then again, Michael did not know what to make of _anything_ anymore. He was the only sane one left.

Liz still had her legs wrapped around Kyle when the chaotic bunch began their inglorious dance, smiling like a fool, and Michael vividly remembered how her thighs felt around him; deceptively soft skin hiding strong muscles that clenched in reflex when he pleasured her just right. His abdomen tightened a little, recalling every quirk, every subtle gasp, every glassy-eyed vision of her.

If only he could bring himself to apologize to her. She deserved so much more than that from him, but he refused to admit how easily he had been mislead, how quickly history had repeated itself; she'd purposefully tricked Maxwell into believing she'd slept with Kyle when she had not—he could personally attest to that. Then, while Michael had tried to avoid her in order to deal with all of the inexplicable emotions he so desperately reigned in out of an instinctive fear, he'd believed that she had betrayed him—_betrayed _him, even though they could never be together—with Sean DeLuca. To explain his behavior that night, that _horrible_ night in the Crash Down's kitchen, would expose something he could not bring himself to admit, _would not_ admit. He'd rather she hate him, _loathe_ him, instead of see just how much he wanted her… how much he _needed_ her; her body would always remain a beacon, a siren's call he could never deny, but he was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to listen to her voice, to feel her soft hair against his cheek as he kissed her, as he tasted her, as he made love to her.

His heart had broken in that holding cell, in Salina, when he'd seen her rocking back and forth. Quoting _John Donne_, of all things, mechanically explaining the interconnectivity between all of mankind. She had scared the living shit out of him. He could only imagine what she had felt upon seeing him in bed with Maria, and Michael had assumed she was smart enough to realize that he was playing his part. Had assumed she would understand that he had not meant for her to walk in on that, had not meant to hurt her even more. Had not meant to drive her towards this.

Then, she'd run off with Max to Utah, and Michael had never been so enraged at his brother. What a fucking _moron_. Who the fuck gave that tiny girl a fucking _gun_, and told her to go along with some stupid plan when it was obvious she was not in a stable frame of mind? Come _on_. He knew Liz was an expert at shutting down to function properly even when she was a wreck inside, but how fucked up in the head had she been to rob a goddamned convenience store? _Five _convenience stores? With her dipshit ex-boyfriend? It still bugged him, how easily she'd thrown herself into that shitty situation. It was as if Elizabeth Parker had lost that brilliant logic she was so acclaimed for. When had she stopped thinking clearly? When had she stopped giving a shit about herself? When had she lost her _goddamned_ common sense? Michael thought he'd spied that smart, beautiful little biology geek during the long trip back to Roswell, lurking in the shadows. Little Miss Scientist emerged every time he took his head out of his ass and paid some attention to her—not the fucking-against-a-wall kind, but some honest, innocent affection. It made him… _happy_.

He'd lost her again when he'd left her alone to deal with Billy and Maria, though he felt the loss every day. In school, she was a fucking zombie. At work, she blended into the background. At home, she and Ava were attached at the hip, which agitated him. How could two people, so completely different, be so close? They even shared a bed. Sure, it was harmless in the grand scheme of things, but how was he supposed to slip into her room when Pinkie was right there? It was awkward and incredibly frustrating, so he merely stalked her balcony on the few nights he managed to sneak away from the harpy his girlfriend had become, watching her as he always did. It calmed him. She was _everywhere_. She was _everything_.

But she was over _there_, drunk as all hell, wrapped around Kyle… and he was over _here_, trying not to stare at her and wishing he'd done so many things differently.

This was a fucking _disaster_. It only got worse when Liz hopped away from Kyle, twirling over to where Michael sat upon a table in deep contemplation. As if she had known how much he needed her. She was a nymph, mischievous and breathtaking. "Hey there, li'l lady." He rolled his eyes at her. She leaned in close enough for him to smell the dozen or so shots of Tequila she had ingested. "You're the besh lookin' girl here." She was slurring adorably, unable to hide her giggles. "Dance wif me, or I'll fuck you. Rrrrright _now_."

What the _fuck_? Michael was torn between laughing and taking her up on her offer. The second one. "Liz, you're drunk."

She sucked her teeth at him, stumbling in place. Oh, for _fuck's_ sake… "So?"

"Liz," he warned. She would be the death of him. "I don't dance."

She pouted. "_Pfft._ You c'n _fuck_ me, but you can't _dance_ wif me? What kinda shit is _that_?"

He wasn't sure he was comfortable with her sudden use of profanity. The _last_ time he'd heard such filthy language from her delicious little mouth, he'd forced himself on her, and if she did not keep her voice down, _everyone_ would know. Michael couldn't trust himself to _not _toss away all reason and take her right there and then, in full view of their friends. "I'm not in the mood for this shit, Parker."

She stared at him, swaying. A hiccup caused her to dissolve into another laughing fit, and when she dismissed him to return to the mass of wriggling bodies formerly known as their friends, he regretted letting her go. Michael missed having her body close, missed how easily she fit next to him, missed her tanned skin and unique flavor… instead, she went to Kyle who, he idly noticed, was _really_ good at the square dance, gripping his belt buckle like a professional, leaping and extending his legs in ways that could not have been from years of football practice. Valenti spotted Liz and smoothly spun her in a quick twist, sliding a hand around her waist to incorporate her into this new little side-to-side hobble. Michael made a mental note to thoroughly tease the midget once all of the alcohol had been purged from their systems.

The song ended and the drunken fools huffed and puffed with exertion, their breathy laughter filling the silence. The madness, however, had yet to run its course; another tune demanded that they shake it like a Polaroid picture, and it was rather amusing to see both guys and girls try to acquiesce. It was good to see them finally together again—even if they were simply too inebriated to remember why they had avoided each other to begin with—and Michael smirked into his cup of alienized soda. Maybe this party had been a good idea, after all. Their screwed up family was happy and ridiculously jovial. For the first time, he wished he had a camera to capture this on video.

_Wait a minute. _The Parkers had security cameras stationed all around the diner, as did every owner of a business in Roswell who had a shred of intelligence. It would take some sneaking around, but how hard could it be to steal the tapes? Especially when everyone else was too far gone to notice? It was a fucking awesome plan, and Michael chuckled at his sheer brilliance. The blackmail material would be completely worth it.

All self-congratulatory thoughts were frozen when Barry Manilow wafted through the speakers.

"_You know I can't smile… without you…_" Liz and Kyle were slurring in their bumbling duet, perched atop the Formica counters. "_Can't smile… without you. I can't laugh, and I can't sing… finding it hard to do anything!_" They slowly swayed back and forth, Liz resting her head against Kyle's shoulder. Maria was slumped in a booth, fighting to keep her eyes open as she hummed along with the sad melody. Isabel and Max tried to balance themselves on stools—_failed_—then plopped down next to Michael, who kept an eye on Liz and the notable waver in her voice. "_Feel sad… when you're sad. Feel glad… when you're glad…_" Not even through the first chorus, and Liz was sniffling. Ava joined the duo, rubbing the brunette's back in support, though she did not add her voice to the karaoke session. Kyle was looking skyward, blissfully unaware.

By the second time Mister Manilow was commiserating over his inability to smile, Liz was crying, her uneven voice cracking on ever other word. Michael had always believed angry drunks to be the worst of the worst… but with her wailing in time to that stupid song as if her heart were breaking, sad drunks were now the all-time low.

Who the fuck had thought Barry Manilow was a good idea? Who the fuck had put him in the damned stereo?

The depressing sight lasted for only a moment more before Michael could no longer stand it. He stalked over to the pile of CDs, grabbing the first decent artist and sliding it into the CD tray. It must have been an album from Ava's collection, because the gloomy atmosphere was shattered with the first few strings of an electric guitar. Ah, Megadeth. Now _this_ was something he could sing to, had he felt so inclined. Sadly, his growling skills were as abysmal as Liz's attempt at singing, which was _horrible_.

Liz groaned, clutching her stomach.

"It's not _that_ bad," Michael defended. His taste in music, in his humble opinion, was far superior to hers. Pretending to be physically ill was a gross exaggeration on her part.

But Liz, he would come to realize, was not exaggerating.

A tremor wracked her small frame and she barred her teeth, letting out a small cry. "Liz?" he heard Ava ask. Kyle was frowning, aware that something was wrong even through the cloud of alcohol. Michael hesitantly came closer. "Liz," Ava tried again, trying to peer at the hunched figure through a curtain of dark hair. "Liz, what's wrong?" She did not answer and tried to jump off of the counter instead, but did not have the balance required for the little hop and fell. She staggered away from Michael, Kyle and Ava's aide, pushed weakly through the kitchen doors and stumbled around the corner. "She's prolly jus' sick," Ava threw over her shoulder, following Liz.

Kyle was clapped him on the back. "You look worried, Shrek," he said with a goofy grin. "Never thought I'd see _you_ worried. Not about li'l ol' Lizzie, anyway."

Michael ignored him. Ignored the black fly of dread buzzing around his gut, ignored how his legs were aching with the need to run after her, to make sure she was fine. That it was just a case of too much alcohol and once she'd vomited enough, she would be _fine_. She would come back out with Ava in tow, an embarrassed smile on her face. She was _fine_. Absolutely, positively _fine_.

Why couldn't he make himself believe it?

An hour passed. Then another. Maria was softly snoring, ingloriously sprawled in her booth. Another hour. Max and Isabel were out for the count, leaning against each other. By the time midnight rolled around, he and Kyle were on their second pot of coffee. "Maybe she passed out," offered Kyle, who winced at the sound of his own voice; caffeinated or not, that boy would have one killer hangover in the morning. Michael desperately reached for the little patience he had and attempted to wait it out, tried to consider Valenti's logic, tried to do anything but storm back there and find out what was taking those girls so damn long. Puking did not take over three hours. After years in a small tin can with Hank as his legal guardian, he _knew_ how much one human could drink and the upchuck would never be pretty, but three fucking hours? "How 'bout we get these guys home? I'll stay here, if you want."

Michael shook his head. "Thanks, but you're gonna end up just like them in a little bit," he mused, pointing at the three snoring individuals. "C'mon, I'll drive."

It took much longer to deposit the intoxicated teenagers in their respective homes than he wanted it to. They were deadweights and reluctant to awaken, but Kyle was a big help in getting them out of the Jetta. He dropped Kyle off with the promise of letting Valenti know how everything turned out before carrying Maria into the DeLuca house, depositing the car keys on her dresser. Michael walked, jogged, then all out ran to his apartment, fetching his motorcycle; the ride back to the Crash Down was the longest trip he'd ever made in his life.

Free from prying eyes, Michael did not care about modesty as he burst through the back door of the restaurant, zeroing in on the bathroom Liz and Ava had disappeared into so long ago. It was empty, much to his surprise, and he flew up the staircase that led into the Parker home, taking the steps two at a time. Had Jeff and Nancy Parker been there, it would have mattered little; he was too focused on the ball of anxiety tightening in his stomach, too worried and too frazzled to really give a shit besides making sure Elizabeth Parker was healthy, happy and whole. Everything was screaming at him for waiting so long, for allowing his own ignorant pride to keep him from taking care of her when he knew, deep in the recesses of his mind where he could not explain, that was something was wrong. Really, _really fucking _wrong. Was she dying of alcohol poisoning? Why hadn't Ava said something, _anything_?

Michael nearly tripped over a small puddle of blood upon entering the bedroom. _Blood_? His pulse quickened. The crimson trail led to the private bathroom, where he and Liz had taken full advantage of the mirror hanging above her sink. He heard crying. Fear gripped him in its icy embrace as he tried to maneuver around the thick, dark drops that littered the floor, the discarded, stained clothing, and pushed through the door.

He stopped short at the threshold, surveying the scene with narrowed eyes. Ava was sitting on the rim of the porcelain tub, biting her lip. Liz had her face buried in the other girl's stomach, her broken, muffled sobs loud enough to shake her small shoulders. The shower was running, rinsing the brunette's naked body, though no one paid it any heed. Ava kept stroking wet, dark tendrils of hair in a soothing manner, but she seemed just as upset as the young woman falling apart in her arms. Steel blue eyes snapped towards the intruder, anger, resentment and sorrow battling for dominance.

"What happened?" Michael did not recognize his own voice.

Sorrow won the war. Ava closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. "She lost the baby."

**END**


End file.
